One Evening in London, 1897
by Sinangeled
Summary: Someone dies. And Angelus reflects. Oneshot.


_**I just wanted to write about Angelus being Angelus so instead of doing something more productive, I came up with this. Set about 1897ish, or shortly before Angelus was cursed. Enjoy!**_

_**

* * *

**_

Gregory Cullen had moved beyond fear. The numbing terror that he had first felt had left him completely. So had all other emotion and thought. Now he was nothing, nothing, nothing….

He had never thought his life would end like this. Well, okay, he hadn't really contemplated the end of his life, but if he had, it would have likely involved him as an old man in his bed. Something suitably comforting, not that death was, but something relatively painless. He was twenty five, and that was much too young to die. He was moderately wealthy, the younger son of a very wealthy family, and his life and been mostly fun and comfortable. The night before this one he had gone to dinner, played some cards with friends, won a hefty sum, and spent the night in the arms of an attractive woman. He had intended the same thing to happen the next night, but things hadn't exactly gone as planned.

Now he was looking into the coldest eyes he had ever seen, devoid of all human warmth, of any compassion.

"I was bored," the monster told him baldly, "but now I'm simply angry, Gregory." Gregory whimpered.

"Not so confident now, are we?" the man sneered. "Ah, but really Gregory, twas inevitable, don't you see? No one likes a man who cheats at cards. I just happen to like it even less than most."

The man had seemed so normal earlier; a little haughty in Greg's opinion, but the prouder the better, the never suspected someone would or _could_ pull something on them. He had joined their table, introducing himself as Angelus Roarke. The expensive cut and quality of his clothes from his waistcoat to top hat had guaranteed that no one would deny him the right to lose money with them. But the man who Greg and indeed, most of his friends had dismissed as a foppish nobleman and proved himself to be an excellent player and had taken quite a bit of their money before Greg had decided to cheat him. After all, he needed the money, and the man obviously didn't.

He should have known though, when he had seen the man's dark brown eyes flash red or gold, he couldn't tell which, should have seen past the anger that tightened the man's lips and recognized the cruelty that inhabited his eyes. But he hadn't. He had clapped the man on the back and taken his winnings out of the gentleman's club and moved to a tavern to get some good liquor and girl. He had left without a girl, much to his foggy brain's disappointment, and been stumbling to reach a coach to take him home when something had grabbed him and whisked him away.

And now he was here, dying. There were a multitude of cuts on his body, and holes too, from the hot pokers. His voice had given out long ago and it was clear that no help was going to arrive. There were other people, no there were other monsters in the house, he knew that, or he had known that before the pain overwhelmed him to the point where he knew nothing, but they were not inclined to help. Another man had come down to watch his torment for a bit before being dragged away by an insane brunette. Now a blonde woman had entered the basement.

"Aren't you done yet?" she whined. _Yes, please_ Gregory wanted to beg. He couldn't. The demon had ripped out his tongue.

"Darla, darlin" the man said. "Give us some time lass, you know me, I just hate to leave something incomplete." The blonde gave him a sultry look.

"What about me?" she purred, "you wouldn't want to deny me…completion." The man gave her an irritated look and she huffed a sigh and left.

"You should be honored," the monster told him, "I chose you over that beautiful woman. Aren't you honored Gregory?"

Gregory Cullen didn't respond, too far gone in pain to understand what words meant. The monster looked at him in irritation.

"I hate the cowards," he sighed, "They're far too easy to break." He reached over and snapped the neck of the man who's broken battered body dangled from the wall in chains. He turned away from the body; one of the minions would clean it up. He pulled out an expensive handkerchief and methodically and absently cleaned his hands.

He was bored with London, he reflected. He was bored with unlife in general. Oh, he still enjoyed the hunt, torture, his art, but something was missing. Something that ate at him and drove him to greater cruelty than before it had manifested itself. Because he was starting to realize that it had always been there. Darla didn't understand, and he was getting bored of her as well, the Hell Lords knew, and William, or Spike as he was going by now, was too filled with dammed joie de… un-vivre to understand. Not that Angelus wanted to talk about feelings with the impulsive imprudent vampire anyway. Drusilla was too mad.

It was unnerving to him, this sense of loss for something he had never had or even knew. Something was missing that caused him to take relief in the hunt, in terror. London was boring him, too civilized to massacre a village anymore anyway. Maybe he would talk to Darla about leaving it. He had heard that there was good hunting in eastern Europe. Maybe he could indulge in a few of his more bloody pursuits while there, the one's he needed privacy from a great population like London's for.

His mind made up, Angelus exited the dungon to go to bed, and the woman who was in it.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Hours later, he woke up, his mind filled with dreams of green eyes and an innocent laugh. His mind betrayed him once again. And so he found himself even more eager for the now solid trip to Romania. _Once I get some good kills in_, he thought, _everything will be alright_. Fate laughed.

* * *

The holiday season is one of giving, so give reviews please ;)


End file.
